


9.) I Won't Tell

by f-ing-ruthless-baz (my_mad_fatuation)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Walking In On Someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 18:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19910236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_mad_fatuation/pseuds/f-ing-ruthless-baz
Summary: Baz questions his decisions as harsh realities set in, and Simon sees another side of him.





	9.) I Won't Tell

**Author's Note:**

> In case it wasn't clear from the tags, my trope is _"Walking in on the other _______."_
> 
> Apologies if any/all the details in this are wildly inaccurate, both to canon and to the previous chapters. I tried my best to do research and keep it consistent with those, but my brain retains nothing so a lot of things might be wrong. 😬

**BAZ**

Evidently, I did not think this through.

I should have guessed that kissing someone on an _empty stomach_ would make my fangs drop, but the thought never crossed my mind. Not tonight, anyway. Not with Simon Snow right here, offering me what I never believed I could have. But I suppose that’s what I get for letting my guard down.

I pull back before my fangs can push out over my lips and slice him—I’m not actually sure if they’re able to fully drop when his cross is rattling in my jaw, but I’d rather not press my luck. Besides, who knows what the Anathema would do if I injured him, even accidentally while snogging? It’s probably best I don’t stick around to find out.

“Baz, what—” he says when I stand abruptly, but I’m out the door before he can finish. I can’t do this right now. I can’t have this conversation. (Even if it _weren’t_ harder to speak clearly with my fangs out.)

No matter how much Snow may suspect what I am, I’ve never slipped up enough to leave him substantial evidence. Just enough to make him uneasy around me—and cause him to seem unhinged to others, when he goes off with his accusations.

Facing him with a mouthful of razor-like fangs, however, would be a tad too far, I’d imagine. So I’m choosing flight over fight. In any case, if I don’t feed soon, I’m not sure what might happen. I don’t think I’d hurt him—I don’t want to hurt him—but I’ve never been tested like this before. There’s no telling what instincts might kick in out of desperation.

All I know is Snow wouldn’t like me when I’m hangry.

**SIMON**

_What the fuck?_

How terrible of a kisser can I be that I make Baz flee the room _every time_? (I’m having trouble not taking this personally.)

For a moment, I thought he might just need to go to the toilet. Urgently. We did have a lot to drink, after all. But when he left the room entirely, it became clear I was probably wrong. It’s kind of late, though, and I’m a bit tipsy, so my brain isn’t working fast enough to process _what the actual fuck_ is going on.

Maybe he just needs some fresh air, but he could have opened the windows, if he needed to—that would be a first, Baz _opening_ the window. In fact, he was the one who insisted we close the windows during our game, when Dev dared him to remove an item of clothing and keep it off for the following round—Baz opted for his jumper, since he was wearing a shirt underneath. (Unfortunately.)

He complained about the cold for a while afterwards, but by the end of that round, he was leaning in so close to me that I think he forgot about it completely. He never even put it back on.

It’s still folded neatly on his bed now, I realize when I look over to his side of the room. He ran out before he could grab it, but he’ll definitely be too cold if he goes outside. It must have slipped his mind when he left in such a hurry like that. In which case, he’d probably appreciate if someone were to bring it to him…

I’m up and across the room to pick up the jumper before I can second-guess myself. Before I can convince myself that he ran away from me _for a reason_. A reason that’s _my fault_. Something that I might not be able to fix by bringing him his jumper. Something that I might not be able to fix at all.

I try not to think about it.

**BAZ**

I don’t even think about where I’m going. I don’t have to. My feet seem to take me of their own accord when I get like this.

Since it’s late, however, the kitchen isn’t really an option for me now, so I make my way to my usual midnight buffet in the Catacombs. Rats are not my favourite, admittedly, but they do in a pinch.

It’s already dark, but I could find my way to the White Chapel with my eyes closed; my superior night vision isn’t even necessary at this point. Which is good, because there’s no way I can focus on directions now, after everything that’s happened tonight. In fact, ever since the chimera, my whole world’s been flipped upside down, ten times over.

Snow kissed me. Twice. (Well, technically _I_ kissed _him_ one of those times, but only because he’d already tried.)

I simply cannot fathom any reasonable circumstance under which my arch-nemesis and hopeless crush would actually _kiss me_. He kissed me and held my hands and told me to trust him— _dared_ me to. It would all seem rather endearing and romantic if it weren’t… well, if it weren’t _me_.

How can I trust him, anyway? He read my private journal, first of all, and then went off and told Wellbelove about it. Enough for her to connect the dots, at least. And he conspired with my cousin to trap me in a game meant to air my secrets.

It doesn’t matter that he says he _likes_ me, whatever that means. I _like_ plenty of things that I’d be willing to turn on in a heartbeat—so to speak—when push comes to shove. Besides, Snow’s clearly the type of person who becomes enamoured with anyone who shows him the slightest bit of affection or praise. He’s sickeningly loyal to the Mage, after all.

Crowley, what’s going to happen when the Mage finds out? Because there’s no way Snow doesn’t report all of this to the Mage; he’s a very good lapdog, of course. If he weren’t such a shit liar, I’d almost suspect this was all a ploy to get the Chosen One to infiltrate the Old Families and strengthen the Mage’s position of power.

As it stands, I suspect he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing, but as soon as a certain moustached mentor of his gets wind of this, trusting Snow will be a major liability. One my family certainly won’t stand for…

I barely register that I’ve reached the Chapel before my body carries me through the arched doors.

I’ll be able to think more clearly once I’ve fed.

**SIMON**

It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness outside—the moonlight alone is not enough to keep me from nearly tripping over a hedge outside Mummers House—but by the time things start to take shape around me, Baz is nowhere to be found.

I didn’t think he had that much of a head start on me, but I suppose he’s faster than I am, even when I’m dead sober. I follow the main path, since I have no idea where he might have gone, though it doesn’t take me long to figure it out.

The front door of the White Chapel opens ahead of me, and a shadowy figure briefly blocks out the faint shaft of light cast on the ground as it moves inside. It has to be him.

The door closes long before I reach it, but I follow him inside and quickly scan the place. There’s no visual sign of him, though I can hear footsteps at the other end of the Chapel, behind the altar. I don’t know what in Merlin’s name he’s doing back there, but when I hear a muffled thud, I break into a run to catch up with him. (I doubt running in the Chapel is allowed, technically, but this is important.) (Baz needs his jumper.)

I make my way behind the altar, but he’s nowhere to be found. I continue past the sanctuary to the Poets Corner—a dead end—with no luck. The busts of Seuss and Carroll stare ahead, like they’re mocking me for being so utterly useless. I can’t even find my roommate when there’s literally nowhere else he could be. Unless I imagined the sound of his footsteps back here. And that thud…

I have no idea what could have made that noise. It was not entirely unlike the sound of the large wooden doors at the front of the Chapel closing behind me when I came in, but I don’t see any such doors here. There’s nothing back here but the Poets, staring me down.

But I was sure I’d heard Baz come back here. I just want to find him. I _need_ to find him.

 _I need to know he’s okay_.

I need to—

Well, _fuck_.

The panel of wall between the busts slides out of place to reveal a staircase leading down into what I can only assume to be the Chapel basement, though I don’t have a clue what Baz could want down there.

I guess there’s one way to find out.

**BAZ**

I don’t bother lighting my way with a flame this time, despite the fact that the chill I’ve been ignoring since I left Mummers House is really setting into my bones, down here in the Catacombs. Makes me wish I hadn’t forgotten my jumper back in the room, but there was no time. Besides, I’ll warm up a bit with some fresh blood in my system.

A rat scurries across the tunnel ahead of me, and I’m on it in an instant. My skills at rat-catching have greatly improved in the past year, as I’ve gotten the hang of it. Though I shouldn’t be too proud of that; it’s not going on my CV or anything.

I pause briefly to drain the rat, but it doesn’t take long. I’m ravenous, after all, and there’s not much to the little buggers. It’ll take quite a few to sate my appetite at this point, so I waste no time before continuing down through the tunnels and corridors, where I know I’ll find plenty more. (I bring the desiccated rat carcass with me until I find a discreet spot to dispose of it, however. It’s best not to leave them out where anyone could stumble upon them.)

The rats are few and far between tonight, though, and I find myself nearly at my mother’s resting place, inside Le Tombeau des Enfants, by the time I’m on my third. I see another scurry past the doorway with her memorial placard, but I feel uncomfortable _feeding_ like this in front of her—despite the fact that the whole monument is merely symbolic—so I knock out the rat and carry it over to an alcove where I can be a disgrace to my family in peace.

**SIMON**

I must be in the Catacombs. I vaguely recall being told about this stuff years ago, but the thought creeped me out so much that I never went looking. And rightly so, because this is _well creepy_.

It’s also extremely confusing down here in the dark, and I wind up at several dead ends—no pun intended—before I hear footsteps again, somewhere ahead of me. A rat scurries by my foot and I nearly yelp. This probably wasn’t my best idea ever, but I tighten my grip on Baz’s jumper and continue onward. Perhaps when I find him I can ask what the fuck he’s doing down here.

Assuming that he is actually the one down here, and I haven’t been lured by some evil spirit under false pretences.

Also assuming I haven’t been lured by _him_ under false pretences.

He wouldn’t, though. He’s not _really_ evil, I don’t think. He’s not…

I stop in my tracks as I round a corner and see him huddled in an alcove, hunched over with his back to me. I’m about to call for him, but he must hear my shoes scuff against the stone floor, because he drops whatever he’s holding and turns towards me.

I don’t register the look on his face right away; I’m too distracted by the _dead rat_ that just fell from his hands. And the blood stains on his cuffs. And the fangs.

Baz really is a vampire, then.

_I kissed a vampire._

**BAZ**

Well, this is embarrassing, to say the least.

Scratch that; it’s just about the worst thing that could possibly happen in this moment, except perhaps for the rest of the _Scooby Gang_ showing up and dragging me off to the Mage.

“What are you doing here?” I snap, startling Snow out of his stupor. (The awkwardness of trying to speak with my fangs out somewhat undercuts their menace, but he still flinches away from me.)

“ _Me_? What are _you_ doing here?” he asks, his voice pitching up with indignation.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I level a threatening glare at him despite the fact that I’m panicking internally.

This is what he’s been wanting for nearly a year—even if nobody believes him after this, he’ll still _know_. He’ll still have certainty, finally. Enough certainty to justify calling his sword right now, even, and ending me once and for all.

I think I’d let him.

“I—I don’t… You—” Snow stammers, like my question catches him off-guard. _What is he waiting for?_ “You’re a—”

“A _what_ , Snow?”

When he still doesn’t answer, I chuckle mirthlessly. I can’t help it.

“Pathetic,” I add before using my sleeve to wipe dripping blood from the corner of my mouth. I glance down at the state of my shirt and pull out my wand for a quick **Out, out, damned spot!** “There. Now no one will believe you when you tell them.”

His face shifts from horrified shock to anger. “I’m not gonna _tell_ anyone, Baz.”

“Right. Of course not,” I scoff, struggling to keep my composure. “You would never do such a thing.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“ _You have!_ ” My feet involuntarily take me closer, as though intimidating him with my height advantage is just second nature to me now.

He doesn’t usually recoil from me like that when I do, though. It’s disorienting. I’m so used to Snow stubbornly standing his ground, but this… I don’t know how to deal with this.

The flicker of fear in his eyes stops me in my tracks— _does he actually think I’m going to attack him?_

“Baz—”

“Just get out of here, Snow,” I say as I back away.

“Baz, wait, I—I mean, you—You forgot your jumper,” he says hesitantly, and holds out a lump of knitwear in my direction.

I glare at him again, reaching out to grab it from him before he can drop it on the filthy ground. “Fuck. _Off_.”

He opens his mouth as if to respond, but turns and storms off instead. I briefly consider going after him—I could give him a chance to understand; give _us_ a chance—but I don’t. Of course I don’t.

It was never going to work anyway.

* * *

**SIMON**

I tried to stay up until Baz returned to our room last night, but it just wasn’t possible. My mind was racing so much that it tired me out pretty quick. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything that happened—the kiss, the Catacombs, the fangs—and wound up having one of the most restless nights of sleep I’ve had at Watford in years.

I’m so worn out by the time I wake up in the morning, I barely manage to drag myself to the bathroom, despite the fact that running late for breakfast usually lights a fire under me. Baz isn’t even here, although I’m not sure if he already came and left, or if he never came back at all.

I can’t help but worry about what might have kept him from returning last night. What if someone else found him down there, with the rats and everything, and turned him in? He could get kicked out of Watford—or worse. I’d never see him again, that’s for sure.

 _Fuck_. I should have stayed with him. I should have made sure he was alright. But I was scared. Not of him attacking me. I don’t think.

 _Hating_ me, though…

The door swings open as I’m buttoning up the shirt of my uniform—I wear it even on weekends, because I don’t have any other clothes that fit as well—and Baz stops short as soon as he sees me standing there, in the space between our beds. It only takes him a second pull on his mask of indifference as he shuts the door behind him.

“I thought you’d be at breakfast by now,” he says, making his way over to his wardrobe to take out his clothes for the day.

“I, er, I slept in, I guess,” I say, my hands paused over my buttons.

“Hm. Sleep.” He looks at me again, briefly, and I notice the bags under his eyes. “Must be nice.”

“Where were you, then?”

“Out.” He closes his wardrobe forcefully and heads for the bathroom, but I take a few steps forward to stop him.

“Wait, can we, um… well, you know… talk?” I say. For a second, I consider reaching for his hand, but I stop myself. I don’t know if he’d want that now. (I don’t know if I’d want that now.)

He sighs, like he’s already exasperated with me and we haven’t even started yet. “About what, Snow?”

“Oh, well, I just, um…” I take another step closer when it looks like he’s about to break for the door again. “Are you alright?”

“Never better.”

“I just mean, last night you were—”

“Nothing happened last night, Snow,” he says. “Whatever you think it was, you probably just dreamed it.”

“Quit denying it, Baz! You know what happened!” I reply, heat rising in my cheeks. “We kissed, right there on my bed, and—”

“Oh, that.” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s bored or if he’s just tired from staying up all night.

“Yes, that! Well, that and… I saw you… I…” I don’t want to say it. As if saying it will make it real. (Maybe I made it real by saying it too many times, already.)

But he’s staring down at me, like a challenge. Like we’re still playing the game. _I dare you to say what I am._

“Baz, I… I’m not going to tell anyone,” I say instead. “Not anymore. You trust me, yeah?”

“Why would I trust you, Snow?”

**BAZ**

He’s looking at me like I just punched him in the stomach, and there’s a small part of me that wants nothing more than to drop everything and take him in my arms and tell him I didn’t mean it. That I was scared, but I do trust him, and I want him to know the real me. That it will all be fine.

But there’s another, louder part of me that thinks it’s all bollocks.

I spent the whole night thinking about this, about our situation. About _us_. But I can’t see any way this doesn’t end in flames. Mutual destruction—or, at the very least, my own.

I will always be what I am—a Grimm and a Pitch and a _vampire_ —and Snow will always be the Mage’s not-so-secret weapon, at least until he’s outlived his usefulness and gets tossed aside. And I doubt I’ll still be around to pick up the pieces then.

“I asked you to trust me!” he says once the shock wears off.

“No, you _dared_ me to trust you as part of a contrived game; it doesn’t count,” I tell him, causing him to look rather put out. “Besides, how am I supposed to trust you if you don’t trust me?”

“What? I—I trust you! Who says I don’t trust you?”

My eyes flick down to the cross pendant around his neck—he said it was a gift from Dr. Wellbelove last Christmas, but I know why he wears it every day—which is on full display at the moment, since his shirt’s only half-buttoned. ( _Crowley, a partially undressed Simon Snow is the last thing I need right now._ )

I raise my eyebrows pointedly and he places one hand over the cross, like he’s only just realized it was there.

“I—I just—This isn’t—” he says. “I’m just used to wearing it, alright? I don’t even think about it, but it doesn’t mean—”

“Take it off, then.”

“What?”

“If you trust me, then take off the necklace.”

His fingers curl around the cross, and for a moment I think he’s going to yank it off… but he soon drops his hand away, leaving the chain in tact around his neck, pendant and all. “I… I can’t—”

“Thought so.” My jaw tightens as I push down the nauseating sensation in my gut, the one I felt all night while I kept picturing the horrified look on Snow’s face, over and over and over.

I continue past him to the bathroom, giving him a dramatically wide berth, and slam the door behind me. I refuse to break down in front of him.

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s already won.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I don't know that I really captured the _spirit_ of that trope, since Simon doesn't really "walk in on" Baz, so much as hunt him down, but hopefully it's close enough that it counts.
> 
> And, yeah, since it's only chapter 9, there's no way I was gonna let them be Happily Ever After yet. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ #sorrynotsorry


End file.
